


'It's not all just data, Sunshine' or 'Everything that matters cannot be counted'

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Greg is a bit of a philosopher, Greg is the best, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycroft Holmes is himself, Sally Donovan is alright, Sherlock grows into himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-14 08:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15384789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: How Greg met Sherlock. And what happened next. Its a slow burn. Written mainly because there seem to be barely a 1000 fics on Sherlock and Greg. And Greg needs so much more love and this ship needs many more stories :) So this is my little contribution ! This work is now complete. Enjoy!!





	1. Chapter 1

It took Gregory Lestrade almost two years before some kind of pattern became clear in his interactions with Sherlock Holmes.

******************************

Sherlock had hacked into the police radio and has been observing crime scenes for a few months now. The one DI who caught his eye was someone he had observed on three separate occasions. He was good. He was in charge without being domineering. He juggled his team well. He was respected by the team--- perhaps even liked by them. He was efficient and thorough. And oddly enough Sherlock liked his face. His open expression. The kind eyes, the slow but warm smile.

He was someone he wouldn’t mind working with. He was someone he _wanted_ to work with.

******************************

So, the first time they ‘met’ was when a young junkie walked into the D.I’s crime scene and reeled off a string of nonsense that eventually resolved into proper words, delivered in a posh accent dripping with disdain.

After explaining why the husband should be arrested, he said “Nearly 50% of all murdered women are killed by intimate partners.”

Then he swung his head from side to side, looked right into Lestrade’s eyes with his own blue-green ones and said ‘Caring is not an advantage Detective Inspector” and wandered off as casually and mystifyingly as he had wandered in.

 _Yeah_ the Detective Inspector had thought. _Intimacy and death walk hand in hand. Everyone is eventually going to hurt you. You just have to decide who is worth it._

Well, Lestrade didn’t know it then but he had just started on the path to deciding who was worth it for him.

*********************************************

Seeing that young man had brought to the fore all his protective instincts. He hated seeing these kids throw away their lives on drugs. He wished he had not been distracted by Anderson just then about the time of death and had taken the decision faster and managed to stop the lad before he left the crime scene. But by the time he focussed, the young man was long gone.

So over the next few weeks, busy and pre occupied as he was, the D.I found himself looking out for the posh junkie when he walked into crime scenes. He did not catch sight of him again till after three months when he found him in an alleyway, outside a club where they had been called in after a drug bust had led to a suspected human trafficking ring.

The face was not easy to recognize under the grime and wispy unshaven growth on his face but one look at those eyes and Greg knew it was him.

He seemed to not only be high on something but also looked ill and Greg had him picked up and taken to a hospital despite his fervent protests. The young man attempted to swat away the paramedics but they knew exactly how to restrain and deal with him and so they did.

*******************************************

The next day after work was done Greg went to check on him in the evening.

 _Why did he feel the need to do that?_ He couldn’t say. But he knew that he couldn’t not go and sometimes our choices are as simple as that. They actually emerge from a lack of choice.

He found the lad sitting on the bed, coiled like a spring and hurling ‘deductions’ at everyone in the ward, followed by the statistics and data.

“Medical errors are the third leading cause of death in hospitals. Let me out!” he yelled at the nurse.

When he saw Greg his face almost lit up with some kind of hope which was quickly eclipsed by anger.

“It was just a 7% solution, Lestrade. That’s all. I am a _user_. Not an addict.”

“How do you know my name?” Greg asked, surprised.

“Oh….. I know everything about you Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” said the scrawny young man in an arrogant drawl. “Born in Bristol, moved to London at the age of 22. Like I did. You joined the Met, rose through the ranks quickly. Married for 8 years. First two were happy. Now she is having an affair with her yoga teacher.”

He then shut his lips firmly, realizing even in his state that maybe…….just maybe this had been a road too far.

Then he looked at Greg’s face and said “But you already know that don’t you. As _many_ as 36% of men and women say that they've had an affair within the last year.”

_Thanks kid. Let’s just rip open the statistics of my personal life right here in the middle of the hospital ward and toss my heart in the corner along with all the shredded packing material. You just whipped me right along from where I have just about tentatively accepted that I am suspecting she is having an affair to knowing she is really doing it to being told in so many words that it is a fact. Truly, caring is not an advantage._

“Ok.” Greg said, rubbing his forehead, “I don’t know how you are doing this but clearly you don’t need to be in hospital wasting tax payers money any more. Let me ask the nurse about your discharge.”

Sherlock’s own clothes were so filthy that the nurse said she had binned them already. So Greg went out to buy him a pair of comfy bottoms, pants and a T shirt.

It was an hour later that Greg found himself standing in the hospital lobby with this hyperactive young man who looked like he wanted to moult and shed his own skin more than anything else. He hadn’t said a word to him since all those deduction inn the ward.

(Later that night as he was going to sleep Greg contemplated that although we like to believe we make conscious choices, sometimes choice do get made for us. _Just being somewhere with someone feels like a choice has been made for you and all that is left is for you to act upon it. There are no coincidences really. The universe is rarely so lazy.)_

“Come on, I am taking you home.” said Greg.

“Yours or mine?” asked the young man, with a sly look on his face and a slow wink which made Greg really want to slap him.

“Behave yourself!” Greg said to him sternly. “Enough of your nonsense now. Do you even have a proper home here? Where you can be warm and safe and where there is food?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. What’s it to you? Do you know that 8000 people sleep rough in London every year?”

“Seriously?!” said Greg in disbelief. “That is the tone you are going to take with me now?” He looked at the discharge card. “Sherlock Holmes. Is that your real name?”

“Yup”. Sherlock said. “Real name. Given by my real parents. Luckily they gave my big fat brother an even funnier name.” and he snorted with laughter.

Then he suddenly looked right into Greg’s eyes and said “Take me to _your_ home.”  

Greg hesitated for a second. _What was it about this young man?? He was not his first junkie and he wouldn’t be his last. But there was something compelling about him. If he was given to whimsy he would have said it was almost like he knew him from some_ _other life. There was some connection. Despite his rudeness and easy familiarity Greg felt some odd sense of needing to be there for him. There was something vulnerable under all that sass and he could not just send him back out on the streets. He just hoped he wouldn’t rob him in his sleep._

“Come on.” He said, making up his mind. “Let’s go. You can take the sofa.”

“Hmm”, said Sherlock. “Do you know that Heinz tomato soup sells 5 million cans in one month in Britain?”

Greg stopped at the local Tesco on the way home to pick up some bread and milk and eggs. He also picked up six cans of tomato soup. His wife was out ( _At a girls’ night out she had said. Sigh. He didn’t want to think about it_ ) so he just heated a can of soup, made two toasts and a cheese sandwich and put it in front of Sherlock. Greg noticed the way his eyes lit up when he saw the soup can. He drank it all up and also ate one toast, pushing the rest away.

Greg also ate and then gave Sherlock a pillow and a duvet and told him to sleep on the sofa.

He sat on an armchair next to the sofa watching a rerun of Midsomer Murders, with Sherlock making random but astute observations non- stop. Greg found himself actually enjoying this insane running commentary.

Greg interjected once when the young man was insulting DCI Barnaby too much.

“Oi! He is a good man he is. You lay off him!”

He laughed a couple of times when Sherlock correctly called out an inaccuracy in the procedure.

“How do you know all this stuff?” He asked.

“More important question is how come they don’t?!” sneered the young man.

 _We could do with someone like you on the force,_ he thought _. It would be so much better for you to help us catch criminals instead of bordering on becoming one yourself…_

When there was a lull for a full five minutes he turned around and saw that Sherlock had actually fallen asleep, curled up with the duvet around him. He looked so much younger and somehow so innocent that Greg really had to resist the urge to sweep his curls off his sweaty brow and hold his hand and make him feel safe.

 _Who are you kid? Why are you doing this to yourself?_ Greg sighed _. I should probably not get involved. It’s not as though I don’t already have enough troubles on my plate._

He watched his long eyelashes tremble with dreams and decided _I will talk to him tomorrow about getting him clean and sorted. I will take care of him._

He turned the lights off in the living room and went to the bedroom where he slept fitfully and woke up late.

When he looked around he saw that his wife had probably come in late but had left early for work.

Also, the young man was gone.

********************************

He felt a sense of disappointment. He was not sure what he had really expected.

_A note? A goodbye? A thank you card?_

As it turned out Sherlock _had_ left a note of sorts but Greg saw it only half an hour later when he was dressing up after his shower and noticed the empty soup can on his bedside table.

_How the hell had it reached there??_

A winking smiley had been scratched onto the soup can. Greg looked at it and snorted. _The brilliant homeless junkie also had a sense of humour. Will wonders never cease._

He washed the can out and kept it to dry. _Not a sentimental keepsake_ he told himself _. Maybe he would grow some basil in it. Some DIY urban gardening. Basil would make a nice addition to canned tomato soup. For next time…._

There was also a text message for him from Laura and he could feel the anger dripping even from the lifeless pixels.

{You promised you would not bring your work home Gregory.}

He looked at the message and wondered anew at the audacity of someone who was probably having an affair to be able to deride him for offering shelter to someone in need.

He sighed.

He had reached a point where the indifference had grown beyond the capacity for anger. He felt mildly surprised that she still managed to feel rage.

He felt as though they were just waiting out the inevitable. Yes, he knew he had to shoulder half the blame, it was true. Being married to your work can make it difficult for your actual human spouse to deal with.

But still. Eight years. It was close to 3000 nights.

How do you measure when the love started withering and desire was replaced by disinterest and eventually betrayal? Everything that matters cannot always be measured.

He shrugged.

_It was what it was._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet once again and slowly the energies shift. Greg gives himself a second chance at his urban garden. Mycroft takes note of this new refuge.

Greg made a half-hearted attempt to grow basil in the empty soup can.

_Where was Sherlock? When would he see him again? Was he clean?_

After three weeks of struggling all he had to show for his urban gardening effort as a can full of wet mud. So one Sunday while cleaning the kitchen he threw it out.

************************************************

It was a month or so later that Greg came home late to find Sherlock already lying on his sofa, one empty can of tomato soup lying on the kitchen counter. He looked starved and unbathed and Greg wondered if the sofa could do with just a deep clean later on or needed to be thrown away.

_Maybe Laura will take it with her when she leaves._

When Sherlock saw Greg come in he said, “Your wife let me in some time back. Then she left. Lestrade, did you know that in London in 2017, around one in 10 people aged between 16 and 59 had tried cocaine.”

_Yes and in the last few weeks around 1 in every 10 minutes of my life have been spent wondering where you were._

Sherlock was jittery and tired but there was something in this eyes that night. As though he had decided he belonged here. On this sofa, in this house, with this man. He would not need an invitation. He may not stay but he would always come back.

Greg felt the shift in energy and felt something settle in his own heart. _It was only the second time they were meeting properly but then connections could be made and broken in seconds couldn’t they? You could make eye contact with someone across a crowded street and recognize a soulmate in an instant. Or you could despise someone almost the second you met them. No one could really put a measure on these instant connections._

He barely noted that Laura had let Sherlock in and then left. She had not even called him to let him know. Not even a text dripping with anger. He guessed she had also finally crossed the Rubicon into the land of indifference. _Where would they go from here?_ He didn’t know and at this point he really didn’t care.

He heated and ate his own dinner while Sherlock shifted restlessly on the sofa. After clearing up he pulled up a chair and held Sherlock’s hand for four hours as he shivered, took him to the bathroom when he vomited and sweated, found old pajamas and a T shirt for him to change into and took him back to the sofa to sleep when he came down from his high.

Just before he fell asleep the young man said, “Lestrade did you know that Freud promoted cocaine as a safe and useful tonic that could cure depression and sexual impotence. Pope Leo XIII in fact advertised for it and carried it in a personal hipflask to fortify himself in those moments when prayer was insufficient.”

_You and your data and your infernal statistics and factoids._ Greg thought to himself _. I don’t care if literally the bloody Pope used it. You idiot. Calling me ‘Lestrade’ in that disdainful tone as though I am the one dressed like a homeless person lying helpless on the sofa and you are the one juggling a full time job at the Scotland Yard and hiding out a junkie at home._

The next day again by the time Greg woke up somehow Sherlock was gone.

Greg saw the empty sofa and it was like a punch in his gut. _When would he see him next? He didn’t have any way to contact him……._

Then like a reflex turned back to check his bedside table. He grinned _._

_Yes, there it was. The empty can with the cheeky smiley face._

Greg found himself humming during his shower and wondered what was wrong with him. The young man was like a feral cat. He would come to him when he chose. He would live the life of the jungle while away. He was probably breaking enough laws for Greg to consider locking him up instead of letting him into his home. He was clearly intelligent but as unpredictable as the wind. He was rude and thoughtless and would communicate in data and statistics.

But one intense look and one smiley face on a can made Greg feel as giddy as if he had been given a romantic Hallmark card and a promise.

Well.

There _was_ something about being the chosen one. For being the one he came to when in need.

_Please Sherlock. Always come to me when you need. I will keep you safe._

_*******************************_

He decided to give the urban garden one more chance and this time he planted a small cactus tree he ordered online.

His research showed that the word cactus came from the Greek Kaktos, meaning ‘mysterious spiny plant’. The website said --It is not high maintenance, is adapted to rugged conditions, grows slowly but lives long and when it does finally blossom, it is something to behold.

Apparently it also symbolized endurance.

As well as unconditional love.

If all that didn’t make it the perfect plant for them he didn’t know what did!

_****************************_

Meanwhile in a very elegant and highly secure office a few miles away, Mycroft Holmes was looking into this person his brother seemed to have suddenly put his faith in. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. His records were good, promising even. Personal life seemed a bit bumpy but then again, few people reached their mid -30s without some minor bruises along the way.

He saved the D.I’s address pin on his phone and entered his phone number on speed dial and slid his file into the top drawer and locked it.

It was rather ironic for Sherlock to have picked a law enforcement officer to be his safe house especially when coming down from a drug high. But what made Mycroft curious was why the D.I was giving him shelter at home instead of locking him up or sending him to a rehab centre.

_Could it be that for some inexplicable reason……he cared? Why would he do that?_

He shrugged _. Emotions rarely have any logic. Detective Inspector Lestrade…...you will find out the hard way that caring is not an advantage._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original inhabitants of the area which still produces three-quarters of the world supply - Colombia, Peru and Bolivia - chewed the coca leaf for thousands of years. Tests on 17th century pipes found in Shakespeare's garden a few years back are said to have showed up cocaine residues - which would presumably explain the references to "eternal lines" in this most famous sonnet, or the constant use of the word "blow" in King Lear. Henrik Ibsen, Émile Zola, Jules Verne, Alexander Dumas, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle were all mad for it. Robert Louis Stephenson wrote The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde during a six-day cocaine binge. 
> 
> The world's best known coca drink, however, came later. A pharmacist in Atlanta named John Pemberton had made his own coca wine. But when Prohibition outlawed alcohol in the States he had to replace the wine in his recipe with sugar syrup. He renamed it Coca-Cola: the temperance drink "offering the virtues of coca without the vices of alcohol" and marketed it as the perfect beverage for a "turbulent, inventive, noisy, neurotic new America." Pemberton's ads touted it as "an intellectual beverage" which was "one of the most delightful, cheering, and invigorating of fountain drinks." Very invigorating. Every bottle contained the equivalent of a little line of cocaine.
> 
> https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/drug-that-spans-the-ages-the-history-of-cocaine-6107930.html


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was many years now since Sherlock had moved on from wanting to be a pirate. He had realized that solving puzzles was what gave him a thrill. All that data, all those patterns, he could sniff them out like a bloodhound. He had absolutely no desire to work 'for' anyone but he had slowly realized that he may have to work 'with' someone.

The next time Greg crossed paths with Sherlock it was more than two months later.

For two months Greg had looked out for him on the streets, checked MISPER files for his name, made sure he ran his eyes down the list of names from overnight detention, drug busts and with a heavy heart even the OD list, unclaimed bodies.

Every evening for the last two months he had opened the door to his flat hoping to see Sherlock’s sprawled shape sleeping on his sofa. He had even bought 6 more cans of tomato soup which were now lying there on the counter top, un- opened.

Laura had basically even given up pretending she lived there anymore and Greg had been too busy at the Yard to keep track of when she was in and when not.

He watched TV in silence that evening, missing the madcap running commentary Sherlock had poured out that day.

He wondered how he could miss someone he had spent basically just one proper evening with more than he missed his wife with whom it would have been 8 years this December.

*********************************

He may not have seen Sherlock but Sherlock had in fact continued to observe him.

********************************

It was many years now since Sherlock had moved on from wanting to be a pirate. Mycroft had taught him the basics of psychology even before he could spell the word for himself. Then had come chess and learning strategy and finally cryptography. All this before he had even turned 9 and then his older brother left home for further studies. Having studied chemistry for some years in Uni and getting bored out of his skull at the dullness of daily existence, he had realized that solving puzzles was what gave him a thrill. All that data, all those patterns, he could sniff them out like a bloodhound. He could cut through the muddled reasoning of these idiots he was surrounded by, with their pathetic emotions and conversational obfuscations and fumbling and just frustrating slowness.

Sometimes he felt like he had been dropped in a pot of treacle and was fighting his way out to the surface.

Of course eventually he had found his way to London and his craving for more things to occupy his brain and his utter dislike of ‘normal’ human interactions while also wanting to be part of crime scenes meant that the underbelly of London had claimed him for herself.

Being a chemist he knew exactly what the drugs would do but he found that a 7% solution of cocaine gave him an edge, sharpened his analytical skills and generally made him feel on top of the world. Until the high wore off of course, but it was never so bad that it made him swear off the drug.

The only other pleasure in his life was his violin. He could get lost for hours while playing and he could feel the synapses in his brain unravel and weave themselves back and those were moments of peace and on very rare occasions, even of joy.

Weaving through this life he had been searching for something. He didn’t know what. The holy grail? The pot of gold? The closing sonata in a symphony?

He needed more data.

There was some kind of hollow space inside of him which he craved to fill up.

He had absolutely no desire to work for anyone and his family trust fund ensured that he wouldn’t have to. But he had slowly realized that he may have to work with someone and hence he had hacked the police radio and tried to narrow down the possible candidates.

600 designated officers with the Met.

He eliminated those working with traffic, terrorism, liaison, senior administrative positions. He needed someone who had his feet on the ground and crime at his fingertips.

Vice and drugs was out. Too close to home.

Homicide.

That was what he would look at. Detective Inspector in the Violent Crimes division. He found 6 potential candidates and followed them around using the news from the police radio.

He prepared a graph of acceptable factors. Intelligence was high up as a requirement of course. Then came the capacity to command. Also efficiency. He checked their solved case rate and made his analysis. All solved cases did not get justice in the courts. He prepared a scale that factored that in.

He was unsure whether honesty as a trait would work in his favour or against but he kept it in. Working with a bent copper may have problems in the long run.

Then he went to phase two of his experiment. Direct observation.

He disliked the first two on sight, was unsure about the third one.

Then he saw D.I Lestrade and suddenly the graph seemed pointless.

That broad back, the shoulders sort of hunched and his hands deep inside his coat pocket, as though he was always trying to stay strong against unpleasant surprises that life kept throwing at him. The brown eyes that looked so kind, if slightly harried while on a crime scene.

The hollow space inside Sherlock twisted a little.

Were these _emotions_? Ugh. These thoughts of safety, comfort, sanctuary? These were not possible to plot on his graph……..He needed hard facts. Data. So he ran three more observational surveys of the man and finally decided that he did fit his other criteria, even if attractive silver hair and kind brown eyes were not exactly part for the data set he had been looking out for……. He shrugged. At least they didn’t detract from the final value.

So he had walked in on him during the case at Primrose Hill and confirmed that indeed he was as intelligent ( _and attractive_ …..) at close quarters.

He had no idea what possessed him to say ‘Caring is not an advantage’.

_Was it Mycroft speaking from his Mind Palace? Bugger off._

_*********************************_

Sherlock had been surprised to be found by the D.I outside the club a few weeks later. He had been angry when they had him taken to the hospital, though he grudgingly accepted that he had needed the treatment.

He had been delighted when the D.I came to visit him at the hospital the next day and been completely astonished when the man had taken him home. Not only that, but he had understood his cryptic comment about tomato soup and actually bought him cans! Graded high on intelligence of course but also on _caring_. Which had never been part of his assessment criteria but suddenly seemed to matter more than any of the other factors…….

_Bugger off Mycroft_ he said again to the voice in his head.

He seemed to have upset the D.I with his deductions about his wife, but the man had taken him home despite that. He had bought him new clothes, fed him, given him a place to sleep. No one had been that kind to him in ages. Sure Mycroft made food available and gave him a roof over his head but the way this man’s eyes had looked at him, he felt as though caring could not really be such a bad thing after all could it?

_No it was a mistake. He had wanted to find a D.I he could work with, not start a relationship with._

_Cuddled on the sofa with the duvet, the D.I sitting next to him, watching TV, the hum of the washing machine in the background, the lingering smell of tomato soup from the dinner…it just felt so…so comfortable. And then the man had laughed at one of his comments on that idiotic crime show and his heart had lurched. That laugh. He wanted to hear it again and again._

_Oh Sherlock. Emotions are a chemical defect on the losing side. Will you bloody bugger OFF Mycroft he had said angrily inside his own head. But he knew his brother was right. This caring lark would get them both into trouble. How do you measure the caring? This puzzle had no data, no formula and that made him feel lost. And although he would never admit it, it made him feel just a little bit scared._

*************************************

So he stayed away from the D.I while he tried to sort out all these thoughts _(feelings??)_ inside him. It made no sense that one encounter could have turned his head like this and there wasn’t even any data he could deal with.

How do you measure a warm slow smile? A belly laugh? A tomato soup can bought without being asked for directly? The door to a home opened with trust?

These were all dangerous things.

The buzzing got too much finally and he turned to the usual solutions and eventually found himself almost overdosed in his craving to quieten the noise inside his head. His last drifting vision before he blanked out was the face of the kind D.I and how sad it would make him to find him dead.

Those kind brown eyes would probably fill with tears.

Sad.

He was sad that the D.I was going to be sad. Maybe a tear trickled down one cheek.

He had never felt bad about leaving anyone behind before.

He needed more data on that……..data….more………data………and then it was black and quiet…….

********************************************

Greg had almost started to give up hope of ever seeing Sherlock again when one day he got a text message from a blocked number, giving him an address.

It just said ‘Sherlock. Urgent’.

Greg dropped everything and simply ran to his car and went with sirens on full, flooring the accelerator, ambulance in tow and thank heavens for it.

What he found there broke his heart.

The young man was barely breathing, his skin dirty and his body so emaciated. The paramedics took over and there was oxygen and CPR and IV fluids and when he saw the ECG showing his heart beating regularly, Greg felt as though it was his own that had restarted.

This time it was the paramedics who were reeling out the statistics and data.

“80% Oxygen saturation, 3 pints of IV fluids, 2 minutes of CPR.”

_And a bloody partridge in a pear tree,_ thought Greg _. Just stay alive kid. Please._

_**************************************_

He sat with Sherlock that evening for a couple of hours and called in the morning for an update. When he visited Sherlock in the hospital later the next day the young man was still only semi aware of what he was saying.

But he managed a lopsided smile when he saw Greg, those brilliant blue –green eyes looking at him with such warmth that Greg felt himself glowing.

“3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine commonly known as ecstasy causes altered sensations and increased energy, empathy, and pleasure.”

Greg didn’t know whether to punch him or hug him. So he sat by the bed and slowly and carefully interlocked his fingers with his own and held them there. Anchoring him. Confirming he was alive.

_If that’s ecstasy please also tell me the chemical formula for agony? What is the equation for this yearning I have and how will you measure the emptiness of my days and weeks till I see you?_

He took a deep shaky breath and what he said was “You look _bloody_ as far from ecstatic as I can imagine you great _bloody_ idiot. Stop throwing your life away.  Please. I beg of you kid. Stop this.”

‘Don’t call me kid’ said Sherlock, frowning, eyelids going heavy again. ‘That makes you sound like you are my …..dad.’

‘And what’s wrong with that? I must be fifteen years older than you’.

‘It’s wrong. All wrong. And no……… you are only 10 years older than me. 50 percent of the population will have 50 percent grey hair by the age of 50. But you…….your hair is grey cos of the ……of the moonlight”, Sherlock said, sounding even more drowsy now, giving him a loopy grin.

‘What?! “Greg said laughing. You are spouting poetry instead of data? Ok!” he raised his other hand in a defensive posture. “I won’t call you kid any more……Sunshine.” Greg said with a huge good natured grin and somehow the energy between them shifted again.

Greg felt himself veer precariously between protective and possessive.

He never wanted to let go of this hand, he never wanted to move from this bedside.

But Sherlock just turned his head away and bit his lip and after a few minutes his breathing softened and he seemed to have fallen asleep.

Greg looked at him. _So young, so beautiful. So much potential._

This time he could not resist sweeping away the curls from that damp forehead and resting his hand on that head for a few seconds, almost as though he wanted to calm his brain through osmosis.

“How can I help you Sherlock”, he whispered. “Please tell me”.

And when there was no response, he slowly unlocked their fingers, released his hand, got up and left, tired and more than a bit sad.

He didn’t hear Sherlock murmur “Just don’t give up on me Lestrade.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock disappears again. Greg wonders why he can't let go of something he never had. And then one day he returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count has increased. The muse is really taking it slow with this one and trying for a very different voice for the two of them ! This is a slightly more gentle Greg, who reads self -help books to sort himself out after his divorce. Sherlock is more like his protegee. Comments on what you think of this are always welcome :)

By the time Greg had the time to check back on him two days later, he had left the hospital and once again seemed to have disappeared without a trace. He had an address from the register. It seemed to be somewhere in Camden. But when he went there a week later it turned out no one had heard of him.

He had not really expected to find him there but he was frustrated to be suspended in a waiting zone again.

Whenever he saw a tall thin young man with curly hair, his heart gave a lurch.

_Was it Sherlock?_

When he leafed through files of MISPERS and drug busts any name starting with an S caught his eye.

_Was it Sherlock?_

But it never was.

And he felt both relieved yet disappointed with that every single day.

***********************************

Mycroft tapped his fingers against polished mahogany table with its leather top.

So he had been right about the usefulness of the D.I and it had saved Sherlock’s life.

But he was angry with Sherlock. Extremely angry. More angry with his little brother than he had ever been so far. He had left college half way, he had rejected all offers to find a job or any kind of work, he refused to eat well and take care of himself. But this? Throwing his life away with both hands and almost dying of a drug overdose?? He had to intervene. For Mummy’s sake if not his own. His parents already believed they had lost Eurus and that had not been Mycroft’s call.

But losing a second one? What was it that Oscar Wilde had said? “To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness”.

Well, Mycroft had never been careless and he wasn’t about to let Sherlock die on his watch.

No disincentives or incentives had worked till now but this time he thought he had something to bargain with. He gave him an ultimatum.

Get clean or the D.I will find himself offered a job with Interpol and posted away from London.

Although Mycroft never entered negotiations without a plan B, (even if he had rarely had to use that), this time he really did not have anything else in hand.

So it was to his great relief that this threat actually seemed to work! Sherlock willingly entered rehab, stayed for two months and came out clean and ready to go back to his D.I.

Meanwhile Mycroft had noted the initial frantic searches carried out by Lestrade, looking for Sherlock in all those places, google searches, the way he happened to just pass by the club where he had found Sherlock, the way he stopped by the shelf of tomato soup cans at Tesco’s, hesitant, almost sad.

Mycroft saw the footage and reminded himself. Truly, caring was not an advantage.

**************************************

That morning Greg looked at himself in the mirror before he left for work. It was his 35th birthday today. He ran his hands through his hair.

_Grey from the moonlight_ he thought and smiled.

Then he shook his head.

_Almost_ d _ivorced, alone, obsessed with a junkie who appeared and disappeared from his life like an apparition. What the hell was he doing? Where was this headed? How could he feel like he was in an emotional ‘relationship’ with someone who was barely fully in his senses on the exactly three occasions that they had interacted in the last year? What was it about him that mesmerized him so much?_

_Why could he not let go of something he never even had?_

_._

_._

It had been a frantic day as always, not to mention the ghastly paperwork that seemed to only multiply every day. If paperwork could solve crimes, he was sure London would be the safest city in the world given the amount they seemed to be doing.

Later that day he was standing in the alley behind the Yard sneaking in a smoke (Sally knew he was trying to quit and would have given him hell, but it had been a rough day and……well, a rough 35 years if you asked him , and he just needed it and hang the consequences).

He had just taken the first puff when he heard a voice behind him, low and deep.

“Those things will kill you, you know. More than 120,000 people die each year from diseases caused by smoking.”

Greg turned around sharply at the sound of that voice. Sherlock!

“Oh you bastard!” he said and pulled him into a hug.

Sherlock allowed him to do so, reluctantly and then pulled back, with a small smile on his lips.

Greg looked him up and down. It was obvious that he had been in rehab. He looked clean. He looked healthier. He had shaved.

He looked gorgeous.

‘You cleaned up’. He said softly.

“Yes.” Sherlock looking into those warm honey coloured eyes. _For you._

Then he looked at Greg’s cigarette and back at him as if to ask _will you give this up? For me?_

Greg looked at him, looked at his cigarette, stubbed it against the wall and threw it on the pavement. He dug out the packet from his pocket, looked at it and then at Sherlock. He tossed it in the bin a couple of feet away.

“Come on in, have a coffee with me while I finish some paperwork,” he said, grinning fit to split his face. _What a birthday present and a half!_

_**************************************_

Whatever free brain space Greg had over the next few months was being taken up by rescue operations for his crumbling marriage but it was a bit like grasping sand. Eventually the tide came in and swept his little domestic castle out to sea and Greg was left walking alone on the beach.

He wasn’t sure if he was happy that he was no longer living in that sham of a marriage or sad that he had contributed to its downfall, even if multiple affairs were not the first resort of every neglected spouse.

****************************************

The week after his divorce came through Sherlock turned up at his flat. He entered after Greg and stood around, looking restless.

“42% of marriages in Britain end in divorce Lestrade. Extra-marital affairs are responsible for the breakdown of most marriages that end in divorce.”

Greg just smiled at him sadly and thought to himself _._

_Yes and people fall out of love, fall in love, grow apart and grow together. Difficult to measure the distances they move during this dance of connection_.

_Why do you think you are here today and why am I happy to see you?_

What he said was “It’s ok Sunshine. I am fine. Want some tomato soup?”

Sherlock nodded and they had dinner in front of the telly. They flipped through some channels and eventually ended up watching University Challenge. To Greg’s delight, Sherlock answered every single question. Sometimes even before the question was fully asked.

“Amazing!” Greg said. “That was just amazing!” _You are amazing_

Sherlock tried to look indifferent to the praise initially. “It’s all numbers and data Lestrade. Numbers are real. Data is reassuring. Patterns are reality. Only what can be counted matters.”

Greg looked at him, and Sherlock almost trembled as he felt him seeing right into his soul.

_Yes, I can see that you find emotions confusing and you think feelings are an illusion, but you are wrong sunshine. You are so wrong._

Sherlock blinked but didn’t look away. There was something in his eyes. He looked terrified.

But he was still here. He had _chosen_ to return to Greg.

Again.

At that thought Greg suddenly felt his whole being flooded with a sense of contentment.

This. Here. Now.

This could be enough. This could be happiness.

They both said no more and watched more TV and at some point Greg fell asleep on the sofa.

When he woke up some hours later, he had crick in his neck and he found that Sherlock had covered him with a blanket and left.

He checked the bedroom table and found one more empty soup can with a smiley face carved into it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Greg just hang out together, finding their way around each other. Gently does it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ever expanding chapters ! To make up for that am posting two today :)

Seeing Greg after rehab had been like soaking in the sun after a long, long winter. _Funny that he called him sunshine when it fact it was he who lit up Sherlock’s day._ That warm smile he had given him, the hug he had drawn him into. He was not used to such displays of affection. Most people gave him a wide berth because of his caustic behaviour. He disliked fools and unfortunately seemed to be constantly surrounded by them.

Mycroft had helped construct his Mind Palace and on its entrance was engraved ‘Caring is not an advantage’. He had never questioned his brother’s wisdom in all these years. Not even when he hated him, ran away from him, disobeyed him or reluctantly obeyed him. He never ever questioned that he knew better. But now, for the first time he was beginning to wonder.

All Greg had ever done was care for him. And it had transformed him, his life.

_How was that not an advantage?_

He flinched when he remembered his awkward attempt at flirting with the handsome cop, how he had asked him ‘your place or mine’ and winked at him. He had no idea what had come over him! But the D.I had just brushed it off. Being on the streets and needing drugs meant that Sherlock was not a sexual innocent. But this man had taken him home and never once made him feel uncomfortable or obliged to reciprocate in any way. He needed to make sure the relationship stayed on an even keel. His growing _infatuation?_ _crush?_ on the older man could mean being ordered out and he had no doubt that Greg would do that if he wanted to. He may be caring and kind but he certainly knew how to maintain boundaries. It had been obvious from his observations at crime scenes. Greg was affable, friendly even, but he was the boss and it was clear that everyone on the team always remembered that.

Sherlock had had plenty of time to think during rehab. He had day dreams about how pleased and proud of him Greg would be when he kicked the drug use _(NOT an addict Mycroft, just a user. Get out of my head !!!)_. He had been outraged when Mycroft had had him taken away from the hospital and straight into a private high security rehab centre. He never once said it but he knew that Mycroft was aware that a lot of the anger was because he had not been able to tell Greg where he was going. The man had saved his life and he was not even offered the dignity of a goodbye.

When he had finally been released, the first person he went to meet was Greg. He had lurked around outside the Yard, not wanting to go in and face other people. Finally around 4 pm Greg had come out and gone into the alley for a smoke and Sherlock had gone in to greet him. It had been wonderful and worth every day in rehab to for that hug and the smile and to hear Greg whisper with such joy—You cleaned up!

But he did not know what to do with himself the next day. He had seen the divorce papers on Greg’s table when he had gone in for a coffee. He had felt a surge of joy at the knowledge that Greg would soon be single but then had felt a pang of fear because he didn’t know what to make of that.

 _What did people do in such situations? Would Greg start dating again? Would he want Sherlock around more because he was alone? Or less because he would want the company of his friends? People more his age? Women? Colleagues? Who knows what he did in his spare time_ …….besides the observations at crime scenes, their close interactions thus far had been only in crisis mode.

Meanwhile Mycroft had forced him to stay at his house “Until I am sure the rehab has stuck and I don’t have to send your D.I to rescue you again.” So he took his revenge by playing the violin loudly at all hours and refusing to eat any meals in his brother’s presence. When Mycroft left for work he would log in from his home computer and subscribe to all kinds of porn sites as an additional longer term payback.

But a week of this with Mycroft ignoring him completely was quite enough to have him bored out of his skull. One day he woke up and decided he was going to visit Greg. He made it upto his block of flats and then had no idea what he would say when he met him. He hung around for a couple of hours and then finally when he saw Greg open the door with his key, he turned up behind him. Greg had looked at him and despite being clearly not in a happy mood had given him a half smile.

He had been so nervous about meeting Greg that he had just blurted out “42% of marriages in Britain end in divorce Lestrade. Extra-marital affairs are responsible for the breakdown of most marriages that end in divorce.”

 _Oh dear. He really didn’t need to rub that in._ He thought Greg would show him the door for his thoughtlessness. But instead, the man who continued to stagger him with his capacity for kindness had asked him to come in and had offered him his favourite tomato soup!

Then they had sat and watched telly and Greg had been so proud and pleased when he answered the questions of the quiz show. He did not know how to handle such praise, so freely given. He had felt himself glow with warmth and …….was it happiness? And he had been scared. Terrified. When Greg had looked into his eyes he had felt himself tremble. _Would he see what he felt? Would he be angry with him for that? Would he tell him to stop it the way he had the first day they met?_

So he had again blurted out “It’s all numbers and data Lestrade. Numbers are real. Data is reassuring. Patterns are reality. Only what can be counted matters.”

Greg had listened to him and he was sure he had also heard what he had not said.

But something had shifted in those warm brown eyes and in the quiet thump of a heartbeat Sherlock knew that where this man was would be his safe space. Always.

They had sat quietly continuing to watch TV as though Sherlock’s universe hadn’t suddenly developed a huge crack in its space-time barrier and was letting in a flood of emotions never experienced before.

When Greg fell asleep on the sofa Sherlock covered him with a blanket and scratched a smiley face on the can and left it by his bedside table before letting himself out of the flat.

******************************

Now that Laura had gone, Sherlock was at Greg’s flat more often.

The next time he came over he wandered through the house after dinner, picking up books from the shelves around the house. He brought around six of them to the sofa.

Greg laughed. “That’s a lot for bedtime reading.”

Sherlock looked at him seriously. “I taught myself to speed read. I will be done with these by morning.”

“Really?! And will you remember what you read?”

“Every word.” Sherlock said. Confidently.

Greg was struck by a thought. “I was really impressed by your knowledge of police procedurals the other day. Why don’t you read up some more of these books over the next few weeks and then come to the Yard and………… sort of……. I don’t know, apprentice with me for a bit? How does that sound?”

Sherlock looked at him, surprised again by the unending kindness of this man, gave a short nod and started reading the first book.

_Anything to spend more time with you._

He could almost see Mycroft standing at the entrance of his Mind Palace, leaning on his umbrella, looking pointedly at the motto carved into the door, raising his eyebrows _. Bugger OFF Mycroft._

_********************************_

Greg had been cautiously pleased to note that Sherlock had been right—he was a user and not an addict and the rehab did seem to have worked, at least for now. Greg still itched to smoke every so often and had bought a pack of nicotine patches and kept the box in the living room. He wanted Sherlock to see that he was also making an effort and he hoped it would encourage him to keep his control too.

_Where does he stay when he isn’t here? Will it scare him off if I tell him he can come over anytime he wants? It is such a relief to see him here and know that he isn’t on the streets or doing anything dangerous. Should I…. ? Shouldn’t I……?_

_Sod it all. If it keeps him safe it can’t be a bad thing. Let me not spook him though._

“Here, keep a spare key.” said Greg, as casually as could, not making direct eye contact as he slid the key from its ring and kept it on the table. “That way you can come in anytime you want and read the books. Eat. Without having to wait for me.”

Sherlock had stared at the key like it was a scorpion but eventually just picked it up and slid it into his pocket.

And that was that.

********************************

Mycroft watched this exchange and sat for a long time with his fingers steepled under his chin.

_Oh brother mine. Do you know what you are doing?_

*********************************

Almost a month later Sherlock had finished reading practically every book Greg could recommend and borrow from the Met library. What was more he could quote from all of them with incredible ease, including cross references and updates gleaned from the internet.

Greg had still not asked what he did during the day but Sherlock was now at his flat almost every evening. He had got used to the sight of opening his flat door and on most evening seeing Sherlock’s face glowing in the reflection of the laptop as he devoured more information, more facts, more data.

He would sometimes just stand at the open doorway with a fond smile on his face till Sherlock noticed him.

“Lestrade!” he would huff in mock exasperation. “You are thinking too loudly! Come in for god’s sake!”

And so Greg would go in and get something sorted about food, because heaven forbid the genius could be bothered.

Once a week he would water his growing collection of cacti placed on the kitchen window sill and wonder when they would blossom.

Over dinner they would discuss spies, forensics, serial killers and such things. Sherlock would question him on the finer points of fingerprinting versus ear printing or blood splatters and gunshot wounds.

One night he had been particularly morbidly fascinated by the story of the Russian spy who was poisoned using an umbrella. He had actually giggled when Greg told him the story and Greg’s eyebrows shot up. Sherlock wouldn’t say why he had found it so funny and Greg had nodded indulgently. _Kid_ he thought in his head.

So they fell into some kind of unspoken routine.

At some point after dinner Sherlock would read some more and eventually he would leave.

He would be back again most evenings but he never stayed.

On the days when he didn’t come, Greg would look at the empty space around him and wonder what he was doing.

_Did Sherlock even remember the conversation about moonlight and not calling him a kid? Was Greg nurturing hopes based on some drugged out ramblings of someone 10 years younger than him? Look at him! Just look at him! Gorgeous, breathtakingly so. And some kind of a genius. Why would he want to get tied down to a greying, ageing, divorced, insanely busy cop when he could have literally anyone he wanted……_

_Just be content with what you have old man. And keep collecting those soup cans. They may be all you will be left with one day._

***********************************

Since that day when Greg had held his hand in the hospital, they had not touched on purpose. Besides the occasional brushing of arms while walking or the tips of fingers exchanging teacups or doing the dishes.

Greg was often tempted to run his hands through the young man’s curly hair as he hunched over some book or the laptop screen, but he would just look at him fondly instead, filled with a deep sense of contentment that he was clean, safe and healthy.

Sometimes Sherlock would sit around after dinner using Greg’s laptop while Greg lounged on the sofa reading one of his self-help and meditation books.

On such occasions, Greg would sneak glances at the young man and wonder at how his life has ended up here. Sherlock always seemed to know when he was looking and sometimes he would allow himself a small smile and a glance back at Greg, as if to say ‘Hey there’.

Greg was tempted on some days, to say _something_.

When they had spent a quiet evening together, or sometimes when they had just come in from the rain and Sherlock was all ruffled and laughing and shaking his hair like a wet dog to get rid of the raindrops.

When they had finished dinner and Sherlock stretched like a cat and then curled up on the sofa.

When they were in the middle of an animated discussion at the dinner table.

When Sherlock would get up to leave and be at the front door.

But he held back and waited. He knew what he wanted. But he needed Sherlock to realize what he wanted too.

_And if it was not the same thing, then it would be easier to go separate ways if nothing had been said._

_Was he being a coward?_ Or was he just being pragmatic…...Wasn’t it self –preservation to protect one’s heart from being broken?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock figures out what he wants to do with his life. But Greg is left behind counting soup cans and wondering if 42 is the answer.

After two months Greg thought Sherlock was ready for some ‘real’ cases. Not fresh crime scenes yet but real cold cases. So Sherlock came and sat in his office room, flipping through the old files while Greg finished some report.

He took barely five minutes to flip through the first one.

“You do realize that this is a double homicide made to look like a murder suicide Lestrade. They happen in 20% of the cases.”

“What? Yes of course but how do you know about this one?”

Sherlock reeled off some observations about left handed-ness and angles and velocities and Greg called Sally Donovan in and asked her to review the evidence in light of this.

Sherlock pointed out possible solutions to 8 cold cases by the end of the day, picked at the food offered, drank lots of coffee (black with two sugars) and at some point walked out of the Yard while Greg was taking a call and that was that.

*****************************************

Sherlock was almost dizzyingly ……happy? _Was that the emotion he was experiencing?_ Solving those cases had given him a similar kind of euphoria that he usually managed to achieve only with drugs till now. _This was what he had wanted to do his whole life!_ Solve puzzles. Real life puzzles. He hated the idea that all over the world there were boxes like the ones he had just seen. Filled with cold cases, unsolved problems, streams and streams of data unfiltered by anyone with enough capacity to wring the truths out of them.

This. Here. Now.

This was what he wanted.

That evening he burst into Lestrade’s flat wanting to share his revelation. He wanted to shout --I want to be a consulting detective!! This is what I want to do with the rest of my life!

But the flat was empty since Greg was still at work and as he stood there in the silence and emptiness for a moment the revelation came crashing around him.

_That when he said ‘this’ is what he wanted to do with the rest of his life, he had assumed it would be with Gregory Lestrade. The man who had rescued him, saved him, cared for him. The one he came back to again and again._

_The familiar sound of the fumbling with the keys outside, the extra minute when he knew Greg would be just standing there looking at him, the bustling around of dinner, the comforting regularity of canned tomato soup, the conversations. The warm smile that made his eyes light up. The sight of Greg rumpled and sprawled on the sofa, reading, with one hand tucked under his head. The sound of Greg lightly snoring when he fell asleep while reading._

_‘This’ meant all of it._

_But how could this work? Why would Greg want him there on a permanent basis? He had never said anything to make him believe that. He had passed the key more as an obligation, to help with his reading. He saw him as an intern for god’s sake. He used to call him ‘kid’ .That had stopped for some reason but now he called him Sunshine. It made him feel strangely warm everytime but was it a paternal kind of term of endearment?_

_If he wanted to work with him as a professional that needed to stop. He needed to maintain a sensible distance. In any case he had finished reading all the books, so he really didn’t need to be here every evening any more. Yes that was the sensible thing to do._

_Mycroft was always right. Caring was not an advantage._

So he turned on his heels, left the flat and didn’t come back that week.

Nor the week after.

And by the third week Greg had stopped expecting him.

 

He had no idea what had happened but i _f we made no promises he can’t really be breaking them can he?_

_**********************************_

After dinner alone in front of the telly to drown out the deafening silence of Sherlock’s absence, Greg would open his cupboard and let his eyes take in the rows of empty cans inside.

A veritable army of smiling cans.

Was there a milestone Greg had been hoping for?

5 cans is fondness, 10 is relationship, 20 is a commitment? Something like that?

Well, he had 42 of them and the meaning of his universe was hidden in them somewhere.

But the genius who could have deduced it was no longer around.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newly minted Consulting Detective felt a small hollow space in his chest every evening when the light was just so and the time was just right and he would unconsciously listen out for the keys to jangle at the outer door but there would be no one coming. A certain cactus plant flowers beautifully. And maybe 42 does provide the answer after all :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its a long chapter AND it has an epilogue at the end. Hope you enjoy it ! Comments are always more than welcome :)

In the months that followed, sometimes Sherlock would turn up at Greg’s crime scenes sporadically.

The first time Greg saw him he froze.

_What was he doing here? What did this mean?_

But Sherlock had just looked at him in a very formal and detached way and reeled off his deductions before he dashed off the scene.

.

.

Sally Donovan couldn’t quite put her finger on it but something was making her boss even sadder now than when he was getting divorced. She had no idea why but her copper’s instinct made her suspect Sherlock. Something had happened between the two of them. It really bothered her that she had no idea what or why.

She was already annoyed with Sherlock for having created more work for them by going through cold cases. The fact that he had been correct in almost all of them did not make her irritation any less. His brusque communication ‘skills’ were not exactly endearing and the fact that he had somehow managed to make Greg unhappy was just the tipping point. She made no bones of her dislike for him and barely tolerated his presence at crime scenes.

However, she noticed that after the deduction, once in a while, Sherlock would hesitate and spout some random statistics before leaving. She had observed that he directed these statistics to Greg alone, even if never actually made eye contact.

What she actually said to Greg was “Freak is going all Wikipedia at you again Sir. It’s almost like a code he uses specially for you.” Then she had rolled her eyes and left.

Greg stared at her retreating back. Yes, he knew that Sherlock’s brain was wired in such a way that he found it much easier to express emotions hidden as data.

Saying ‘20% of all homicides are unsolved’ was his way of saying to Greg, _don’t take it to heart if you can’t solve all of them._

“There are 260 workdays on the official UK calendar’, was his way of saying _take some days off._

Greg rubbed his tired eyes and wondered if he could ever ask Sherlock _\--if everything is just numbers to you genius, how can I get you to measure the longing in my heart when I look at you? What units can you use to count exactly how much I miss you? What quantum of hope do you reckon I am living on?_

_What went wrong? What can be done to make it right again?_

_Will it ever be right again?_

*************************************

One day some months later, Sherlock had rushed into the Yard, up the stairs two at a time as usual. He had dashed through the double doors and crossed Sally’s desk only to find Greg’s room empty.

He spun around and found Sally standing there, hands crossed, looking at him with the usual mixture of disdain and annoyance she reserved specially for him. But today there was something else. Fleeting but different.

“Where is he?” Sherlock asked before he could deduce and analyse what that different expression was.

“He is in hospital.” She said.

“For the case?” Sherlock asked, puzzled.

‘Yeah, for the case’, spat out Sally. ‘His case.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sherlock frowned, still thrown off by the sight of Greg’s empty room and having to interrogate Sally who was being more obtuse than usual.

‘He was admitted Sherlock’, she finally said.

‘What?’ Sherlock’s face twisted in a way that would have been funny if it wasn’t so painful. And then almost as if he was talking to himself, he said incredulously, ‘He is ill enough to be admitted? And I didn’t know?’

Sally shrugged. She had no idea what was going was going on between the two men but clearly there were still some missing pieces.

“I guess they informed his next- of- kin? And he got someone to message me since I need to step in while he is away. He just crashed at the crime scene. But they said he is stable now.’

Sherlock had suddenly gone so pale and a bit wobbly that even Sally felt a fleeting concern. She took pity on him.

‘Sit.’ she told him sharply. ‘Have some coffee’.

When Sherlock had managed two sips with a trembling hand she looked at him.

“He is fine. He is going to be discharged tomorrow. Probably just a combination of a bad diet, stress, working too hard’.

And then she couldn’t help adding. “Loneliness doesn’t help either. It’s a tough life. You know.”

************************************

Sherlock had left a few minutes later, with his head still spinning.

Gregory Lestrade had not been in his office. His office had been empty. Greg was in hospital and if he hadn’t gone to the Yard that day he would never have known.

No one would have told him.

The Consulting Detective without his Detective Inspector.

_Why would they tell him? Who was he? A junkie who was rescued by the D.I? An overdosed young man whose life was not only saved but completely turned around by the Detective Inspector………_

_A newly minted Consulting Detective who felt a small hollow space in his chest every evening when the light was just so and the time was just right and he would unconsciously listen out for the keys to jangle at the outer door but there would be no one coming……_

_A lonely idiot who should NEVER have believed that caring was not an advantage…….not when you could have LOVE._

_And it had been there all along. Every day._

_The soup was love. The books had been love. Every smile had been love. Every nicotine patch had been love._

_Unconditional and freely given._

_No strings attached._

_Why did people say that like it was a good thing? Sometimes you wanted strings attached. You wanted to tie yourself to the other person. Shakespeare had been right. ‘Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel’. To let them know that they were not alone. That they had a safe space to lean into, just an arm’s length away._

_What an idiot he had been. What an idiot Mycroft was. _He felt sorry for him, fleetingly _. How badly had he been hurt to want to believe such a thing?_

_He had filled out his hollow space with data and more data. Statics and lies. And all that had happened was that the space had grown, like a balloon being filled with air._

_When all he had really needed to fill himself to overflowing was a can of soup and a certain warm smile._

_Which had been his for the taking and he had walked away from it all. He had allowed his own fears to control him and be cruel to the man who had done nothing but care for him. Again and again._

Sherlock suddenly realized that people on the street were starting to stare at him and he found himself standing on the pavement, cheeks wet with tears.

_How long had he been there?_

He looked up.

His feet had unconsciously brought him right where he belonged.

He fished out the key from his pocket and went in and opened the door to Greg’s flat. He stood in the doorway the way Greg used to and he tried to imagine what he must have seen.

_A home. A loved one. A happy place._

He glanced over the living room. Everything seemed to be in its place. But it looked neglected today. Sad even. The self- help books were also gathering dust.

Sherlock blinked and took a deep breath.

_He could do this. He had to at least try._

He cleaned up as best he could. He went to water the cactii and saw that one of them had flowered. Stunning orange coloured succulent petals had emerged from the thorns and just changed its entire appearance.

 _Greg would be pleased,_ he thought _._ He picked up the pot and placed it as a centre piece on the dining table.

Later that night he went into Greg’s bedroom. He used to only tiptoe in and leave the can for Greg to find and then quietly leave, smiling at the thought of him finding it the next day. But tonight he sat on the bed and looked around. Slowly he lay down on the mattress and rested his head on the pillow. He turned to one side and looked at the other side of the bed. _How wonderful life would be if he could do this every night and wake up to see the silver haired man next to him._

 _Hair the colour of moonlight_ , his brain helpfully supplied.

And suddenly he remembered. Greg holding his hand with interlocked fingers, his own drowsy smile, the comment on his hair, asking Greg not to give up on him.

Looks like his sub conscious brain knew what it wanted better than his rational brain had managed.

Ugh. _Idiot._

_But how did Greg feel about him? He cared for him of course. He was fond of him undoubtedly._

_But could it be anything more?_

He clutched his hair _. He needed more data. How could he deduce without more evidence?_

Suddenly he felt very tired. Exhausted even. _He would sleep here. He would wear Greg’s T shirt and just sleep right here._

So he opened Greg’s cupboard and was unexpectedly faced with a staggering amount of data.

42 bits of evidence in fact.

He counted them twice and he was grinning fit to split his face in two.

It was all he could do to stop himself from running to the hospital and find Greg and talk to him.

But he held himself back.

_He had acted on a rash impulse and walked out once. He needed to find his way back in a more gentle way._

_******************************************_

Mycroft watched in alarm when Sherlock was seen standing outside Greg’s apartment, weeping. _Weeping?!_ He was getting ready to ask Anthea to prepare for an intervention. Then he saw him go into the flat. And then he saw him start to clean up.

 _Cleaning up?!_ _What had happened to his little brother today?!_

Mycroft watched in fascination as Sherlock moved books around, plumped up cushions, put the flowering cactus on the dining table, did some dishes, checked on all the curtains and finally went to sleep in Greg’s bed.

Sherlock: The Consulting Detective. Also apparently Sherlock: The Domestic Goddess.

He could barely wait to see what tomorrow would bring!

******************************************

So it was that when Greg was discharged from the hospital and reached home on Saturday evening he found the flat cleaned and the flowering cactus on the dining table.

_What had the website said again? ‘Gro_ _ws slowly but lives long and when it does finally blossom, it is something to behold. Symbolizes endurance. And unconditional love.’ Sounded about right._

.

.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, apparently preparing dinner. The table was set and something was smelling really good. Greg stood in the doorway and took a deep breath.

_God, how he had missed this, the sight of Sherlock in his flat. As though he belonged there._

_Don’t build up your hopes though._

_This. Here. Now. This could be as good as it gets._

_._

_._

“Hello Sunshine! What brought this on today?” he asked.

.

.

Sherlock had felt a cold trickle of anxiety in his heart since the moment he heard that familiar fumbling of keys in the door. _What would Greg say? How would he react? Would he ignore him? Would he be angry and order him out and tell him to leave the key behind? How could he explain why he had behaved so badly? How could he apologize for having hurt this man? How…._

So when he heard Greg’s question he hung his head in shame--- at the un-believable capacity this man had for forgiving and caring.

He took a deep breath to steady his voice. “Since your divorce you have eaten home cooked food only for 230 out of 730 meals this year.”

Greg laughed. _And we are back to data._

“It smells awesome,” he said. “Let’s eat!”

So they ate and drank some really good red wine and spoke about some recent cases, including a court appearance Greg was preparing for. It felt like the good old times again.

After dinner Greg picked up the plates and went to wash them while Sherlock sat on the countertop next to him and continued to talk, waving his hands about as he explained some new theory.

Although Greg had collapsed at the crime scene only for exactly the reasons that Sally had surmised and not anywhere close to a near- death experience, being there in the hospital all alone, being reminded of one’s mortality and having too much time on his hands had made him remember things that were gone and day dream about things that could have been.

All those feelings and thoughts and hopes were still very close to the surface today and his heart was overflowing just now with the quiet comfort of this domesticity.

“So was this dinner a one- off?” he said jokingly, handing Sherlock a plate to dry. “You would have to move in here if you are going to indulge me for another 500 meals!”

And then….just because it was all so cozy…… and his heart was so full……. and Sherlock was sitting so close by smiling at him with warm eyes, Greg leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips.

As a thank you. And maybe as an ‘I love you’. And maybe as an ‘I am yours. Will you be mine.’

Sherlock suddenly went still and his hands paused in mid-gesture.

But Greg didn’t notice any of that since he got a call at that exact second and had to answer it and then rush off to the Yard.

“See you later Sunshine!” He said as he grabbed his keys and badge and ran out of the flat. “And thanks for the lovely dinner!”

**********************************

The call turned out to be about a high profile murder involving a Minister, a sex worker and a media baron. Made even more sensational by the media headlines because it involved a woman Minister, a male sex worker and a transgender media baron who had only recently made the change from man to woman.

Needless to say Greg spent the next three days in the office, showering in the premises, avoiding the press and sleeping in an empty cell for the few hours of rest that Sally absolutely insisted he take.

When he finally made it back home, with a stiff back and a headache and utterly weary to his bones, he went right to bed and slept for 12 hours straight.

He woke up around 11 am and wandered into the kitchen. He saw that the dishes had been cleared away. Sherlock must have done that before he left.

Greg made himself a cup of tea and thought about Sherlock and the meal he had cooked for him. It had been a lovely surprise, very thoughtful and caring.

It was like the sun coming out after a long, long winter. _What had brought it on?_

Sherlock himself had eaten some of the food but also had his can of tomato soup as always.

Greg blinked. The can.

_Where was the empty can?_

He looked on the countertop, behind the dried dishes, even in the trash.

Nothing.

He walked back to his bedroom.

Nothing.

Greg’s heart lurched. His brain scrabbled to remember their conversation that day.

_What had he said?_

It came back to him in a flash.

He had said to Sherlock “You would have to move in here.”

 _Oh Jesus_ ….and then he had..….had he… …. _kissed_ him?! A light barely- there kiss.

But _oh dear god_ ……Had he _really_ done that??

Or was it just something inside his head like he so often daydreamed about?

_Oh FUCK._

And now there was no can.

_Had he finally frightened him away completely?_

He pulled out his phone and then paused. _No, this had to be done in person._

_FUCK. What had he done?_

He showered and got dressed and practically raced to the Yard.

As he was walking down the passage he saw that Sherlock was already in his office, pacing.

He stopped where he was. He tried to unclench that knot in the pit of his stomach. He reasoned with himself that if Sherlock had taken it badly he would not have returned. He would not have come here to confront him.

Surely.

Meanwhile Sally was apparently trying to say something to him. He tried to focus on her.

“Sir? Are you alright? Freak has been here since we came in this morning and today he gave me some statistics about the hours of sleep needed. Please tell me he isn’t going to go Wikipedia on _me_ now?”

Greg had no idea what to say to that. He went into his office, closed the door behind him and stood in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock was behaving as though the floor was lava. His face was frozen like a mask.

_Was he angry? Nervous? Terrified?_

_What should he say to him? Sorry? I love you? Do you love me? Don’t leave me even if you don’t? Let’s forget I kissed you? Just don’t disappear from my life again?_

And just then Greg saw it.

The empty can.

He picked up the can that was sitting on his desk and looked at it.

Scratched on the can were two smiley faces.

Before he could process that fully Sherlock spoke rapid fire. “Pure bisexuality is not very common you know. It is possible that many of them are men or women who were married but later discovered that they are actually gay.”

Greg laughed. ‘I don’t care for labels Sunshine, and today _I_ have some data for _you_. 7.6 billion people on this planet of all genders and races and ages and the only one I want is you.’

And then he stepped closer to Sherlock, held that gorgeous face in his hands and kissed him on his lips. When he finally broke away to breathe after an entire minute, Sherlock just sat down in the chair, dazed.

Greg laughed. “Data overload sweetheart?” And he winked.

Sherlock just looked back him thoughtfully and said “I have just realized that everything that matters cannot really be counted after all.”

**Epilogue:**

When they went back to Greg’s flat later, they were still holding hands and Greg struggled to put the key in the door and open it. He saw a large envelope slipped under the door with both their names on it.

_What?!_

He opened it to find a share certificate for Heinz in the names of ‘Messrs Sherlock Holmes & Gregory Lestrade’.

Utterly puzzled by this, he looked at Sherlock for an explanation.

‘Bloody Mycroft’ said Sherlock. “My brother” he said when Greg looked even more confused. “If he really does have cameras on us let’s give him something to look at today”, he said with a wicked grin and he pulled Greg into the bedroom.

***********************************

Somewhere in an office a few miles away, Mycroft switched off his surveillance feed in a real hurry.

Then he steepled his fingers under his chin and wondered. Maybe he had learnt only half the truth.

Caring is not an advantage……….Until it is reciprocated.

_Interesting theory. Now, how would he get data to validate it….._

Just then Anthea came in, her phone in one hand as always, and said “The appointment with the leader of the new government in Malawi has been moved up. The space station rescue went off smoothly. Our astronauts will return tomorrow. The dinner with the Ukrainian Ambassador is tonight. I have ordered your special tea. And your opera tickets will be delivered this evening.”

She left some folders on his table, smiled and was leaving, when she turned around and said to him, “Do remember to wear the new charcoal black suit and the royal blue tie. It looks good on you.”

.

.

 “Anthea”, Mycroft said slowly. “Would you like to go to the Opera with me?”

.

.

What happened next is a story for another day……J

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
